a dead eye alongside one burning with confidence. Two dozen armed soldiers of the Swiss Guard followed, allowed to pass through the Sacred Grotto where pontiffs of ages past were buried and into the secret catacombs beneath, armed like their captain. According to Finn, the guards were well trained and discretionary for the right price, the hardest men to have walked the Holy See.
“You have briefed your men of what they might encounter?”
“I have,” Finn replied. “They are the best in the Guard. Several of them were in Seattle with me and have shared what they experienced with the others.”
“Let’s hope the best is enough,” Cormac muttered. “And they all lack family?”
“Not so much a cousin among them, your Grace.”
“Good. Good. I want you to find him, Finn. No excuses. Observe Caer Llion if you have the chance but do not return without Ardall.”
“With the trackers and firepower assembled at my back, it will be done.”
“Do not underestimate McAllister again,” Cormac warned sternly. “He has almost as many tricks as the wizard.” He paused. “There are also those you should turn from, fey creatures who possess far more power than any of you. Do not enter into contest like you did with the Kreche. Stealth will serve you better until you find Ardall. The longer you stay hidden from those who exist in Annwn, the better chance you will have of completing what I ask of you.”
“As you have said already.”
“You are sure you can track the boy?”
“With certainty. There are three men in this group who track.” Finn patted the pack on his hip. “The map you’ve supplied will also guide us. When we gain the Carn Cavall, we will ferret him out and bring him to Rome.”
Pleased, Cormac nodded. He had spent hours in the chamber of the Seer, pouring over archives of information to help better direct the captain once he arrived in Annwn. After Cormac notified the pontiff of Donato’s murder, Clement had also bequeathed what knowledge he possessed as Pope. With that information and the journals of Donato to aid him, Cormac spent a sleepless night studying Annwn and, having witnessed the path McAllister and Ardall had taken after fleeing Dryvyd Wood, put Finn on the trail to gain what the Cardinal Vicar desired.
Even from the grave, Donato would help bring death to his killers. Through Finn, Cormac would control the Heliwr and use him to hunt those responsible for the murder of the Cardinal Seer.
“Kill the knight if you must,” Cormac commanded. “Richard McAllister has become a serious liability. He has deviated from his role and in so doing has corrupted his purpose the Vigilo and the Catholic Church entrusted him.”
“If all is equal, McAllister will pose no threat,” Finn said, eagerness gleaming in his one good eye. “Not this time.”
“Do not worry about Myrddin Emrys,” Cormac acknowledged. “Without his power he is merely an old man and he cannot aid the boy. Destroy McAllister first. The boy will be yours after that. Bring him straight here, to me. No one else need know of this excursion.”
“It will be done, your Lordship,” Finn said. “I will not fail again.”
Cormac leaned in closely. “Do this, and you will have whatever you wish.”
Avarice twinkled in the depths of Finn’s good eye.
The air grew chillier the deeper the men delved, every level producing older and older carved sarcophagi and tombs dating back centuries, their artwork eroded by age. After coming to a large four-door intersection, Cormac paused, bringing the group to a halt, emotion coursing through him. The right doorway led to the chamber Donato had once called home, the place of his death. Instead Cormac walked through the opposite doorway. Damper air rushed over his cheeks. He stole through the hundreds of yards of twisting corridors, leading many into a world only seen by a few, the sound of moving water growing stronger with every step he took.
Coming to a gaping black doorway, Cormac entered a new cavern. Wet minerals tinged the air. Four lanterns bolted into the low ceiling cast yellow light in a wide circle until snuffed by a cocoon of darkness, the illumination encapsulating a sandy bank where the movement of an underground branch of the Tiber River passed black as an oil slick. Near the shore, two rectangular stones erupted and were carved with hundreds of glowing white runes between which flashes of silver lightning arced within a shimmering void.
Ennio Rossi, his dark eyes haggard but back straight, waited by the portal,